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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2008-12-24, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24, 2008. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt Merry music Do you, like me, have a soft spot for modern fairy tales? The Cement- Filled Cadillac? The Choking Doberman? The first one is a tale of just deserts for a rich guy caught fooling around with the wife of a cement-truck driver. The Choking Doberman? It’s about a family watchdog found to have a throat obstruction – three human fingers belonging to a burglar still cowering in a bedroom cupboard. Urban Legends – morality tales just a little too vindictively satisfying to be true. Here’s another one you can add to the list: Cement Shoes. You know how this one goes. Cement Shoes are the grisly fate of, say, Machete Joe Maniago, a low-browed gunsel who worked for The Mob as an enforcer until he got caught skimming from his weekly ‘collections’. Police investigators would later piece together the grisly details of his demise. How he was ambushed in the parking lot of a strip club, thrown into the trunk of a Lincoln and driven to a remote shack in the Jersey Pine Barrens. There, he would have been tied to a chair, tongue-lashed and pistol-whipped. Finally, his interrogator would have smiled and said “Okay, Joe, now kick off your Guccis.” Machete Joe would have watched with eyes as big as hard-boiled eggs as his feet were immersed in a tub of cement. Joe knew what came next. A quick trip through the night to a small boat moored to a deserted pier. A short ride out to the middle of the river or the ocean offshore and then….over the side with Joe. Cement Shoes, an impossibly horrible fate. Except…not. Well, think about it. Hit men – even sadistic ones – are Time Management specialists at heart. They know murder is exceedingly illegal, to be got over with as quickly as possible. You think they’re going to kidnap a guy, drop the hammer – and then sit around for an hour or two waiting for some cement to dry? And then there’s the weight factor. Pasta lover that he was, chances are better than average that Machete Joe was already a bit of a porker. You think the hit squad would want to add another hundred pounds or so of Portland cement to their burden? As Paulie Walnuts would (approximately) say: “It don’t make no freakin’ sense.” Indeed it doesn’t. And although the plot device of throwing someone into the drink with their feet encased in cement has proved extremely hardy with underworld gossips, night club comics, crime novelists and television producers, an examination of criminal records reveals that exactly zero bodies, or remains of bodies, have ever been recovered anywhere that were dipped in tubs of cement. This is not to say that certain parties have not been weighed down with heavy objects and turned into involuntary sea bottom attractions. Various corpses have been found with heavy objects in their pockets or wired to cinder blocks. Racketeer Johnnie ‘Chink’ Goodman was fished out of a stream in New Jersey back in 1941 closely involved with a big block of concrete – but his body was chained to the ballast, not immersed in it. That negates the entire grisly charm of the cement shoes. Nevertheless, personal experience compels me to confirm that the Cement Shoe concept can be extremely effective as an agent for public change. I offer you the case of Larry W., a fellow in our community well-known for climbing aboard various bandwagons. A few years back, Larry got his picture on the front page of our local newspaper. The photograph showed Larry sitting on a chair, sledgehammer by his side, dressed in Bermuda shorts with his legs clearly immersed in a washtub of hardened cement. Larry, the newspaper copy informed us, had vowed not to smash his way out of the cement until… …I forget what particular issue Larry was protesting that day, but he vowed his feet would remain encased in the cement until the issue was favourably resolved. That same afternoon I ran into Larry at the pub. He was barefoot, (not all that unusual for Larry) languidly sipping a beer. “Larry,” I said, “you won your protest already?” “Not at all, boy,” said Larry. “I just got thirsty.” And that’s when I recalled that Larry had been wearing gumboots in the newspaper photo. Gumboots which he could slip out of any time he pleased, cement or no cement. Moral of this Urban Legend: if anyone ever offers to outfit you with cement shoes, remember to request gumboots. Arthur Black Other Views Two feet equals six feet under Members of the legislature often feel the urge to write poems – this time of year brings out the best or worst in them – and one has come up with possibly the world’s first about an economic recession. MPPs’poems most commonly begin `Twas the night before Christmas and all through the House’and continue commenting on events in that forum and poking fun at opponents. Progressive Conservative MPP and apple farmer Ted Chudleigh has written and recited three poems on the grimmer subject of the worst economic crisis most Ontarians have known. Samples: “I rise today to speak in verse, of a new, imposed provincial curse. Excuse me if my words are terse, but the situation’s getting worse. In this, the former industrial core, where once we heard a might roar, echoing from the factory floor, silence looms. They work no more, Hundreds of thousands of jobs disappear, but the premier says “there’s nothing to fear, simply find a new career. You may have to move away, go back to school by night or day, and take a hefty cut in pay. But otherwise you’ll be O.K. The economy has run amok, the worker is a sitting duck, but who’s to blame for such bad luck? The premier? No, he’ll pass the buck.” In another poem he called A lament for Ontario, Chudleigh declaimed “Farewell, sweet prosperity, our long-sought-after friend. For years you lived in our fine land, but now we can’t contend. Goodbye job security, the fruit of labor done. They say job retraining is the new prize that we’ve won.” In his third, Chudleigh complained the government of Liberal Premier Dalton McGuinty’s creed is “The session is over and what have we done? We’ve banned everything under the sun. We don’t need to think, simply obey. We’ll run your lives for you, the Liberal way. We might crown McGuinty king one day.” None of this will cause Shakespeare and Milton to stir enviously in their graves, but the authors never claim it will and it adds a little colour to a sometimes dreary winter’s session. Julia Munro, another Conservative, contributed a poem that charitably had no unkind words and lines like “’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring. The children were sleeping, all snug in their beds, while visions of Nintendo and Barbie flipped through their heads.” Brad Duguid, recently named minister of Aboriginal Affairs, wrote of moderate Conservative leader John Tory nestled, snug in his Rosedale bed, while visions of the right wing raced through his head. The problem he wrestled caused him dismay. That strong right- wing group always got in his way. The Liberal wished Tory well, but touched a sore spot. McGuinty has said he once wrote a poem to his wife saying how much he loves and appreciates her and often reads poetry after a day crammed with politics. The premier said reading poetry “kind of reconnects you with your emotions,” while politics is the best way to accomplish goals that cannot be achieved by an individual. He has not, however, exhibited his poetic talents in the legislature. The former tough-talking and belligerent Conservative premier Mike Harris may be considered unlikely to have poetry on his mind, but he once described his political philosophy by pointing to Robert Frost’s poem about the merits of taking “the road less traveled,” which was apt. A Conservative minister of community and social services under Harris, David Tsubouchi, raised eyebrows because of a strange poem he wrote about meeting a mime in a park. Tsubouchi continued “I pointed my finger at him and shot him dead with a .44 hollow point. It was music to my ears to hear the death cry of the mime.” Some wondered what a minister responsible for usually unheard-from people on welfare meant when he talked of his joy in shooting a person who did not speak, but it is not always easy to figure out what poetry means. Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk It was, as so many were this fall, a dreary afternoon. Grey clouds above cast a ghostly pallor over the snowy blanket below. It couldn’t possibly have felt any less like the holiday season. Yet, whether my heart was in it or not, the time had come to get festive. And that included the makeover of my home. With more determination than desire, I heaved and dragged boxes from storage in preparation for the tediously time-consuming transformation. But wait. Something was missing, something that just might offer the inspiration I needed. Popping in some Christmas CDs, I returned to the task before me now with a renewed vigour. What had seemed like onerous drudgery, had suddenly become an almost joyous undertaking. Within seconds groans had been replaced by quiet humming, which eventually turned into the full-blown wail one can unabashedly delight in when alone. Fast forward a few days to a visit from my grandson and a promise of shortbread. Christmas music, I told him, must be played if we are going to be baking this special holiday treat. Music doesn’t just entertain in the moment, but can take you to times and places you’ve enjoyed before. It can restore a spirit and revive a memory. And music has always been a big part of my life, from family sings on road trips, to participation in choirs, to attending concerts. Frederick Nietzsche said “Without music life would be a mistake.” Dare say I’d have to agree since I can’t imagine a life without it. Perhaps it’s the specificity of the songs, or the sentimentality of the season, but the memories inspired by the music of this time of year seem to surface without conscious intent. There are some that are quite interesting as I don’t understand the correlation between them and the memories they evoke. For instance when I hear What Child Is This my Uncle Harold will instantly spring to mind, but no image of time or place that might explain why. Mostly, though, the memories are those held and treasured. I hear O’ Little Town of Bethlehem and I am a little girl sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car with my grandmother as we tour around after the Sunday school concert to see the decorated homes in town. I will always get teary when I hear I’ll Be Home for Christmas and remember the first one I spent away from mine. I will always be moved by White Christmas and remember three women who sang this song with me over and over and over again for many holiday seasons. Birthday Of A King and I see my brother and hear his strong tenor resonating through the church. Coventry Carol and it is my little girl, dressed as Mary, delivering a sweet rendition at the front of the school gymnasium. She became then, and when I hear this song, is again, her daddy’s little “Lullay Girl”. The Best Gift and I remember how special this song was to me when I first heard it, having delivered a beautiful pink bundle just days before Christmas, then again eight year s after, this time a handsome blue bundle. From O’Holy Night to It’s A Marshmallow World, there is magic in the music of the holidays. So many lovely songs, so many memories and emotions to go along with them. May you enjoy all the season’s sights and sounds and have a very Merry Christmas. MPP becomes poetic on recession Letters Policy The Citizen welcomes letters to the editor. Letters must be signed and should include a daytime telephone number for the purpose of verification only. Letters that are not signed will not be printed. Submissions may be edited for length, clarity and content, using fair comment as our guideline. The Citizen reserves the right to refuse any letter on the basis of unfair bias, prejudice or inaccurate information. As well, letters can only be printed as space allows. Please keep your letters brief and concise.